They loaded all the provisions and gear that they could. Motoring slowly out of Alligator Gut, they made the slashing S turn from the slough into the narrow entry channel and bumped over the perennially troublesome shallow lump before slipping free into the empty river. They would go where the wind would push them, a floating island unto themselves.
Deciding on a destination was purposeless. No waterfront village would allow them ashore. No state would permit them a berth in a marina. They had chosen to move aboard their boat and aboard they would stay except for empty islands and barren shorelines. If a place had people, it was a place they could not stop.
Fuel and water were their greatest concerns. With the cessation of travel, a worldwide glut of oil overfilled the world’s storage capacity. Oil companies began to store the oil in old tankers. The spot price dropped below zero because storage costs exceeded value. They had filled their tanks using five gallon jerry cans, so it would be a while before they needed fuel, but even that depended on the wind and their direction. Water should come more easily from the skies. They had been in a months-long weather pattern of small cold fronts pushing through every week, sometimes twice a week. The rains were briefly torrential, so they needed to capture a big volume in a short time. Buckets on deck, tarps tied to feed rain into each of them.
The day Requiem entered the river, the sun shone, the breeze a light westerly and just cool enough to be soothing. Minds filled with all they could not know as well as the concerns they embraced, the weather as peaceful as they could have hoped. Once in deeper water toward the middle of the river, they released the genoa. With a soft belly in the sail, Requiem slipped quietly through the brown river water carving a white wave against the hull as they leaned comfortably to starboard and settled into the gentle rhythm of a boat in motion.
They tasted an odd freedom. They had left land for the hands of Aeolus. They could sail anywhere the winds blew. Nevertheless, traditional destinations were beyond their reach. No populated shore would welcome them, fearing they might carry the virus. Or worse, they might bring violent intent.
“Where to now?”
“We’re only making four knots, so we should head for someplace close. South River?”
“Sure. Maybe that place Buddy used to go.”
“The hidden cove?”
“Yeah, the one where he could anchor over the freshwater spring.”
“And where he saw the alligator?”
“That’s the one.”
“OK. It would be good to know if there is any way to collect the fresh water. We might need it later.”
“Cup of tea?”
“Definitely.”
Tea was their hallmark of a successful launch, a tradition once they set the sails and course. They were underway wherever they might head. Requiem was sailing easily, so they could settle into the cockpit and savor the motion with a hot cup of tea and watch the water sliding past the hull. Off to port, cottages linked along the shore until broken by the arc of the bridge over Green River, the closest village, its harbor entrance marked by a roofless fish house, victim of one of many recent hurricanes. As they came abreast of Marker One, the entry to the channel into Green River, they eased to starboard and lined up with the Garbacon Shoal marker to guide them into South River. Beyond the marker, a clean sandy beach reflected brightly, inviting and empty. Dreaming of a refreshing swim, Mack could almost forget the polluted river water, but the shoal extended too far out to get the boat close enough to anchor near the beach.
“I can see the mouth of the river.”
“Just remember that it has a twist as you enter. You feel like you are going past the river before you can turn into the channel.”
They lined up on the outer markers, the wind still favorable.
“We will need to tack quickly to keep what little momentum we have in this light breeze, so prepare to haul fast on the port jib sheet as soon as I release the starboard sheet.”
“Got it.”
As Mack turned away from the river toward the entry channel, he easily spilled the wind from the jib and released the sheet.
“Haul the jib!”
The jib popped over smartly and cradled the wind as if the two were siblings. The boat lost just enough speed to avoid overrunning the channel and promptly regained what it had lost to continue into South River, an open waterway lined with forest upstream. They passed the abandoned town of Lukens, mostly demolished during a 1933 hurricane and completely vacated several years later. Aside from a few ruins of old buildings, the main evidence of its past existence is the cemetery, the arched sign reading “Lukens Cemetary [sic].” Descendants celebrate family memories at an annual reunion picnic accessible only by boat.
They coasted up the river scanning the shores for wildlife and the water for fish. A silent solitude surrounded them as the water whispered against the hull.
“Let’s make the bend ahead before we anchor. I wouldn’t mind being invisible from the Neuse.”
“What about Gator Cove?”
“We’ll check that out tomorrow with the dinghy. I’ve never been into that creek, so I don’t know the water like Buddy did.”
“Wish he was here to show us.”
“Me too.”
Buddy was a dear friend who had died of cancer a few years earlier. A union carpenter, he took a pay cut and worked most of his adult life for various government agencies that prefer initials and anonymity. He did confess once that he and a couple other “contractors” left Algiers to get a pizza in Libya. They made it across the border and back, but barely. A good ole boy from West-By-God-Virginia, he could have talked his way out of any threat other than a bullet. In addition to missing his friendship and wisdom, Mack sure could have used his resourcefulness in these strange times.
As Requiem cleared the bend, they began to lose the wind. Mack scanned water off their stern toward the Neuse. All was clear, so he lifted the binoculars for a better view. Still clear.
“Prepare to drop the anchor.” Andrew scurried forward to release the anchor. Mack eased the boat into the wind, luffing the jib, drifting to a stall. “Anchor down.” The chain rattled over the bow roller as the anchor sank into dark tannic waters and settled into the mud bottom of the river.
Without the engine running, he would not be able to back down and set the anchor firmly, but the weight of the boat would set it sufficiently. There was no current or tide to worry about. The forecast called for light winds, so dragging the anchor was not a concern.
“We’ve got about six feet under the keel. How much rode is out?”
“Roughly sixty feet.”
“Good. Lock it down. Hook the snubber.” Mack was pleased, but not surprised, that Andrew had properly calculated the length of rode needed for the depth of water including the hull of the boat up to the bowsprit. Too many boaters only counted the water depth and set too little anchor rode. A sudden squall would quickly drag them onto shoals or, if in an anchorage, into other boats. Andrew returned to the cockpit.
“Well done son. You remember what William told us about the French?” William was a British sailor who had soloed the Atlantic several times, “easy peasy” so he said.
“You mean how the French sailors often just tossed the anchor over and quickly hopped into their dinghy to go ashore with no concern for whether the anchor set.”
“Yep. Gauloises smoking in their lips and wine on their mind. Makes me chuckle every time I picture the scene. The carefree, laissez-faire attitude. It must work for them more often than not, or they would stop doing it. I just don’t have that much confidence that what can go wrong won’t. Murphy lurks as a stowaway on all ships.”
“Time for an anchor beer?” Andrew was already headed down the companionway steps into the galley.
“Yes. And see if your mother and sister are coming up.” They had started the tradition of an anchor beer on their first voyage south a decade earlier. Once the anchor was set, they relaxed in the cockpit with a cold beer, undistracted as they waited to see if the anchor dragged or if their swing radius took them too close to a shoal or other hazard.
Andrew emerged with a fistful of beers. “Mom and Matty are on their way. Both were sound asleep.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s been several stressful days preparing the boat for departure.”
“Are we really not going back?”
“Let’s leave that conversation for later. Short answer is ‘Back to what’?”
Matty climbed into the cockpit and picked up a beer.
“Good nap?”
“Dead to the world.”
“Good. Your mom on her way?”
“Yes, dear,” Susan announced with a touch of lovingly impatient sarcasm as she, too, rose from the companionway.
With everyone seated, Mack raised his beer, “To the first sunset of a new journey. Sláinte.” The four clicked their cans, and Mack thought about his old friend Joe who loathed the practice of clinking glasses for toasts. Who knew how he was faring out in the mountains. They had been cut off from communication for months. Hopefully he and his partner were safe.
“Wow, it is really pretty here.” Susan and Matty scanned their surroundings for the first time. “Just woods and water in all directions. Quiet. Almost too quiet.”
“Perfect.”
A kingfisher screeched its staccato cry while darting low across the river to the far bank. A couple of seagulls strafed the water. Up high, searching for a thermal and a carcass, a buzzard arced a lazy turn. The golden hour of sunset swept the sky and backlit the pine trees along the shore, lighting the needles a warm green.
“I think I’ll try fishing.” Andrew reached for the rod strapped to the cabin roof.
“Good idea.”
With Requiem secure, Andrew fishing and Susan and Matty chatting with each other, Mack reflected on their situation. They had left their familiar world behind. They had sold what they could and stored the rest knowing that they might never see any of it again. They had packed the boat with enough dry goods for a year and carried heirloom seeds to plant a garden.
But they had no idea where they might find a place to plant a garden. Sure, they could keep several buckets on deck, but the production would be limited. No corn. Limited potatoes. Limited leafy vegetables. Likely no shortage of herbs. They discussed relocating the life raft from just forward of the mast so that they could build a small raised bed in its place. Mack continued to consider that. Too exposed to salt spray over the bow? Probably. Maybe elevate a hard dinghy over the coach roof and fill it with soil like a raised bed? Except for the weight, the idea was excellent. But they needed to sail. They needed to be prepared to hoist anchor and be underway in minutes if they identified a threat. Still, maybe it would work. Maybe the weight would be manageable. Curved hoops made from saplings could be covered with almost any fabric or plastic to protect the plants from salt spray.
Wait…what happens next? I’m already hooked.